


The Doctor is Always In

by lettalady



Series: The Heart of a Villain [6]
Category: British Actor RPF, Jaguar "British Villains" Commercial
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 08:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8438974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: A HOAV oneshot - Doctor Andrew, his lighthouse, and a view of the cast and moments in HOAV





	

## 

* * *

## The Doctor is Always In

**S** atisfied that everything is in its place and at the ready, Andrew moves into the entryway. His yellow rain slicker awaits him, the final piece to put in place before venturing out-of-doors to meet his soon-to-arrive guests.

His supplies are always well stocked, never knowing what challenge might arrive at his door. It’s his nature to be prepared; that’s why they come to him rather than going to someone closer, or a trauma center. But trauma centers are bound by the laws of society. There are things they have to report to authorities: certain types of injuries, certain otherwise untouchable people surfacing to seek treatment. Innumerable back-alley surgeries are scattered about the commonwealth, but those that can afford to be picky, are. Assured safety during treatment, no risk of tetanus or worse during your brief stay, and a well-trained surgeon to attend you? Modestly, he’s the best around. So long as you can secure passage, why go elsewhere?

He hums a half-remembered tune as he checks the pockets of his rain slicker, finding a loose coin or two that are soon joined by the keeper’s keys for his lighthouse.

Guests are coming.

They have been travelling through the night, the ferry that carries them due to dock within the hour. The morning fog that remains in hazy patches has delayed them, though he’s gotten word from the captain that it’s burning off enough to make decent time now across the channel. The mist brings an extra chill to the springtime air, and a slickness to the ground that means the occasional squelch is emitted as the soles of his shoes make contact with the concrete and stone path from dock to doorway. Disliking the accompanying sound – the clomp and grind of his shoes as he walks – he redirects, taking a few steps into the wet grass.

Guests. It means payment, but that’s not the reason for his snippets of song. His clinic in the village remains afloat on its own because he’s good at what he does. His practice there is his way of giving back to the community he holds so dear. This side business is just that – good business.

It hadn’t been his intention when he first started out, more an accidental discovery while he was developing his skillset. Late one night he had walked in on one of his teachers trying to tend to two men, suits sliced in worrisome places, blood soaking the expensive material to a darker color and dripping onto the sleek chrome of the medical school. His teacher had simply beckoned him in to help, pausing only to assure the two men of Andrew’s skills, and gone back to work.

It wasn’t until later, after the men had gone and Andrew was standing next to the sink with his teacher, that he was informed of the character of the he’d just helped to mend. Criminals. A Kingmaker and one of his Crime Lords.

Andrew had felt a bit sick at the notion. Then, as he tossed the remnants of the biohazard waste into the correct container there came a call. More seeking treatment. Eavesdropping without meaning to, the price quoted for services rendered seemed outrageous, but he had no reference point for such things.

Red hair streaked with grey, his teacher had merely lifted his eyebrows at Andrew after ending the call and grinned: “Never lived so well in my life.”

Lived well, sure. But how did he sleep?

A few years after going home again, his clinic already prospering, a familiar shadow crossed his path. One of the men he had patched that night, once again bloody and seeking treatment. Just as he had so many nights ago, Andrew had gone into self-preservation mode and set about stitching the man up, deliberately not asking questions.

Halfway through, the Crime Lord broke the silence. “Clinic, then. Not much like Red, are you?”

Andrew just continued stitching, pulling the sutures as tight as he dared to try to minimize scarring.

A response clearly wasn’t needed for the conversation to keep going. “Good. Greedy bastard sold out my boss. So there’s a position to fill. Kingsley. You met him, before. He was _impressed_.”

Initiated, and given a name, something to match the face of the man he was trying to forget. The Kingmaker’s name was Kingsley. More than he wanted to know, truthfully. Part of him started to wonder if the wounds he was tending were inflicted by a scalpel. Part of him answered that Red had it coming, getting so mixed up with unsavory characters, and then daring to betray them.

He gave the only reply he could, keeping his eyes on his work. “Not interested in working for your boss.”

The man chuckled, “But willing to stitch me up.”

True. Andrew held his silence after that, not speaking again until he’d finished with the last stitch. Only one way to get men such as this to listen. One way, and a gamble at that. As he set the suture needle and holder aside he performed a quick slight-of-hand, lifting a scalpel from his station of tools and pressing it to the Crime Lord’s throat. “Yes. Stitch you up, and open you up just as quick. Easy peasy.”

The man didn’t move, just met his gaze, the bald man’s dark brown eyes appraising him rather than indicating any sign of fear. 

“I’m not Red.” Maintaining eye contact, Andrew had given a contained slow shake of his head, hoping to drive his point home.

“No. But you’re the one that Kingsley remembers. And the student Red spoke highly of, to any that would listen.” A slow smile began to form, “And there’s an opening.”  

Andrew’s heartbeat ratcheted up. Easy enough to read between the lines of the statement. Others would arrive – potentially drive away business by their presence. “I work for me. Not your boss. Not anyone else that comes.”

It’s a statement that netted him an eyebrow quirk in amusement, even as he nicked the man’s neck. The man hardly seemed phased by the blade. “I’ll pass along the message. Anything else?”

Andrew cast the scalpel aside, flipping a small square of gauze at his companion to dab at the dribble of blood that had been drawn. More would come. And keep coming until they got an answer they deemed acceptable. Glowering at the stranger that sat immobile before him, he swore he could hear Red’s voice, the explanation given to a young man’s question: _How can I treat them?_ _How can I **NOT**? I took an oath, my boy. And they do make it worth my while_.

He vowed then and there never to make Red’s mistake. Never to allow himself to become beholden to any of them. “Clinic’ll be off bounds. And I have rules.”

His rules. Rules that are strictly followed or service is denied - in ways that mean they’ll never need a doctor again, if that’s what it takes to get the point across. He never makes house calls. Ever. It would unnecessarily blur the lines of neutrality he’s been careful to establish. They come to him, and then leave after their 24 hour stay is up. No exceptions. Extra payment, no matter how large the sum, will not garner more time. He mends what he can and sends them on their way.

Safety is always assured. From the moment payment is accepted they will not need to worry. No double crosses. No need to bring weapons. Transport to and from is guaranteed, and only those seeking his services come to the lighthouse. A less than warm welcome waits for those who try to arrive unheralded.

Everyone knows protocol. Call. Payment. Arrival. Departure.

No one has challenged his carefully stipulated rules because, well, we all need a doctor at some point in our lives. This sort more often than most.

So no, the reason for his chipper mood this fog-laden morning is not the sum of money that had been transferred into his accounts in the middle of the night, nor the arrangements for the ferry to be moored and waiting.

It is the one that made the transfer. The individual that will soon be arriving in need of his services, with _others_ , no less.  

Andrew pauses his descent towards the dock to look back at the building, lost in thought as he watches the light swing around in its perch. His lighthouse – his childhood home – refurbished to add another function to the list of purposes it serves. After his father’s passing the title fell to him and he saw possibilities in the remoteness of the location. He moved his secondary clinic away from the one utilized by the public. The isolation kept him studious as a youth. Now it serves to better his business.

He continues on his way down towards the shoreline. He has not, since they finished building the dock, actually set foot on the wooden surface that jets out over the water. His feet will never again leave the shores of his homeland, and when they finally do it will be to descend beneath it. He stops his progress through the wet grass and watches for his arrivals, squinting as he peers out over the water as far as the low hanging clouds will allow.

There is no short burst of the horn to warn of the vessel’s approach, not even for the fog. That would defeat the purpose of the extended perimeter and bringing his guests in quietly. Safety is a guarantee that he doesn’t take lightly. Even factoring in his rules, there’s no sense in throwing caution aside. You never know when someone will get something foolish in their head. When you consider those that pass through his parlor, souls both innocent and sullied, someone is bound to try to test his word, and his security measures. He’s almost curious to see who will be the next to do so.

Andrew watches as the captain reverses the vessel, scooting her alongside the dock with a level of precision not unlike his own. The crew makes quick work of looping the ropes around the mastheads, ensuring that the passengers can depart with ease. And then he sees them, the three – a wee one and two moving slowly.

He’s heard about the woman, the one that ran and wasn’t chased. He studies her as she draws the tall one closer, settling herself under his shoulder and moving in step with him despite the little one clutching to the edge of the blanket that drapes off her form. Her hair might once have been primped, but now hangs in patches, sodden from the mist and loose from pins that held it in place.

She was the one that called to announce them, expressing the need for his services. He’ll gather more details as he works, as he always does. Most can’t resist his father’s method. _Feed them truth, Andrew, and feed them well – but garnish with a lie_. Watching his father in action was a marvelous thing. He’d turn and give Andrew a wink beforehand – and then work his magic. People that otherwise would have stonewalled would suddenly be a fountain of information. It always amazed him how quickly people tended to fall all over themselves to correct a miss-telling.

The trio sways as they descend onto the dock, though stepping onto the steadier surface should be the easier part of the trip. It will be a slow procession towards the warmth of the building, but he doesn’t mind. It affords him more time to access them, these patients of his.

It’s the man that has him humming the ditty from his childhood, even now. Oh what tidbits he might can glean. Oh what a morning.

The London Lord of Crime, himself.


End file.
